


For Him.

by OnlyHereForGallavich (orphan_account)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Domestic!Gallavich, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gallavich, M/M, Protective!Mickey, Sad!Ian, Sad!Mickey, bipolar, hope you like it, ill stop now, okay then, tired!mickey, writing fanfiction is my coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:52:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/OnlyHereForGallavich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey knows that it isn't Ian's fault. But some days, it just gets too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Him.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is after Ian's diagnosis and all. Monica shit never happened and neither did any of the other bullshit that followed. Enjoy!xxx

Mickey Milkovich was tired. He was tired, phsyically, mentally, emotionally. The world around him was sapping all of his energy and he was just. So. Tired. But Mickey MIlkovich was also himself. And Mickey Milkovich did not break down. He put on a brave face and stayed strong when those around him couldn't. He knew this rule, had played it for as long as he remembered. Taking the blame for when Iggy or Mandy fucked up and Terry needed a person to punish. Defending the girls at rub and tug. And keeping away anyone, ANYONE who could hurt Ian Gallagher. 

Ian Gallagher was the only man Mickey Milkovich had ever loved. So obviously, he took on the role of his personal guard dog and defense squad. Fending of anyone who tried to make uncalled for advances (though that may have been partially because of his own jealousy), yelling at his family for comparing him to his bitch of a mother even though Ian shrunk a little every time they did, making sure he had his meds on time, throwing a punch at Frank when he touched Ian and overall, just making sure the redhead was safe. 

Because Mickey Milkovich needed Ian Gallagher to be safe. 

Sure, maybe Ian wasn't as energetic and responsive as he had once been; but that was the disease. Sure, maybe they didn't fuck as often as they used to, but that was the meds. Sure, sometime (most of the time) Ian could barely talk to Mickey anymore, but that was not even close to a deal breaker to Mickey. To him, there were no deal breakers when it came to Ian. His life would not be complete without the red head, damaged as he was. Ian or nothing, that was the way Mickey thought. 

But there were days. Days such as this one. 

Yev, now a year old, was at Ian and Mickey's for the night, since Svetlana had some "business" to do, though Mickey suspected she just wanted a day away from it all. Mickey didn't blame her. He loved Yev, but jesus, did all babies cry so fucking much? Ian had been doing better, taking his meds, but for a couple days he had reverted back to the person he had been when he was first diagnosed. Lying in bed motionlessly, not even talking to Mickey or eating much. Mickey still cuddled with his unresponsive form at night, still talked to Ian without any responses in return. He didn't get mad. He DID get sad, but he was Mickey Milkovich and Mickey Milkovich did not just break down. When he woke up in the morning, Ian's arm would be wrapped tight around him and Mickey would recklessly hope he was better. But then Ian didn't kiss him good morning and he blinked away tears of disappointment and pretended nothing was wrong. He could do it; he WOULD do it, if it meant Ian would get better. 

But there were days, days when he wanted to curl up and cry because he was so tired and Ian wouldn't even look at him anymore and didn't Ian love him and what if he needed someone better and he had to stay strong and he just wanted to give up but how could he? He was Mickey Milkovich and he did not just give up.

Yev had picked up a ceramic plate and promptly smashed it against the table. It shattered, pieces scattering on to the floor and one of the jagged edges scratched Yev. It was a tiny scratch, didn't even draw blood, but Yev started wailing like a fucking banshee. "Shit," Mickey muttered as he assessed his son for any other injuries. The kid just kept crying. The sound was overwhelming and Mickey felt like he was being crushed. "Ian!?" He called out, realizing his voice was a little choked up, "Ian, can you please help me out here?! I need some help!" 

It took him a moment to realize Ian wasn't coming. Blinking away the hot moisture that filled his eyes, he started walking Yev around, singing a soft russian lullaby his mom used to sing for him. His hands were shaking and he tried to keep his voice steady, lulling Yev to sleep. Soon the baby grew quiet and Mickey put him down in his little cot. Walking back to the kitchen, Mickey ran an unsteady hand through his hair and down his face. Forgetting the broken glass, he stepped on a couple of pieces and they pierced through the skin, deep into the sole of his fit. He let out a cry of pain and a quick, "fuck!" and lowered onto the floor, starting to sob. 

It was too much. It was all too much. Mickey was already tired from three nights of worried, fitful sleeping, Yev had been crying, his foot hurt like a motherfucker and Ian didn't even care. He wasn't even trying to mediate his voice so he didn't bother Ian. He sobbed loudly, moaning softly at the pain on his foot and his heart. Ian wouldn't move even if he heard. Ian. Did. Not. Care. 

For the first time since he was (very) young, Mickey broke down completely. He tried so hard to stand by Ian, to help him, to expect nothing in return. But he was only human. He craved the easy intimacy between them, the daily poetry of life with Ian Gallagher. He missed the Ian who worried, who got jealous, who loved him completely and irrevocably. 

So caught up was Mickey, he didn't even notice the soft footsteps behind him. "Mickey?" he heard the all too familiar voice. For perhaps the first time since right after the rape, Mickey didn't respond. 

Ian had been dormant for days, caught in his own trap of misery and darkness. He knew Mickey was around, heard his voice, felt his touch. But he couldn't move. Until he heard Mickey's cry of pain. It burnt his mind like a brand and he rose for the first time in days and slowly padded to the kitchen. There, what he saw made his heart break. 

Mickey was the strongest person Ian knew, but there he was, crying. These weren't little sobs. They were loud, shattering wails of pain that shook everything inside Ian. He knew it was his fault. He looked down and saw blood on Mickey's feet, making him walk faster. "Mickey?" He called. He didn't answer. He kneeled next to him and pried open the older boy's hands to reveal his tearstained face and red eyes. He took his feet gently, lovingly, into his lap and assessed the damage. The cuts were deep and had to hurt, but Ian knew they weren't really the reason for Mickey's breakdown. No, those wounds went deeper. And they were Ian's fault. He put Mickey's feet down gently, ran to get a first aid kit. When he came back, Mickey hadn't moved at all. 

He took Mickey's feet back onto his lap, pulling out the fragments of glass, wiping the wounds clean with antiseptic liquid. Mickey's body braced with pain, but he didn't make a sound. Ian bandaged up Mickey's foot carefully, and then finally looked at the hurt boy again. "Shit, Mickey," he said quietly, voice choked, "Why didn't you call for me?" 

He knew instantly from the way Mickey's face crumpled that he had said the wrong thing. 

"You think I didn't, Gallagher?" Mickey snapped without any anger, making Ian wince at the use of his last name. ""I called out for you first. But you didn't respond. I shouldn't have been fucking surprised. You can't spare me a word these days." Ian shrank away from the accusation in his voice. Ian hated himself for how he had hurt him. "Mick, I'm sorry, I-" but Mickey wasn't having it. 

"No Gallagher," he said in a resigned tone, "I'm not trying to blame you for anything. You're sick and I'm sorry, I'm not good enough, I can't take care of you." Ian opened his mouth to protest, but Mickey held up a hand to stop him. "No. NO. Let me say this. Sometimes... sometimes I don't even know if you love me anymore. I always knew you deserve better than a fucked up piece of shit like me and I-" Now Ian was done. He wasn't going to listen to this shit anymore. 

"Shut the fuck up," Ian snapped, making Mickey look up at him in shock, "How dare you. How fucking dare you say that bullshit about you and our relationship. I never pretended you were perfect Mick. I never pretended I was either. We've been fucked up since day one, but there will NEVER be anyone for me except you. I promise I will try, and I know you will too, and this. Will. Work. I am not giving up on you, Mick, and I am so fucking sorry I hurt you Mick. I love you, I love you and I won't stop. Even when I'm curled up in our bed, I love you. Even when I'm feeling down, I love you. Even when you break down, I know you love me. I'm not as strong as you are, Mick, but don't EVER doubt that my heart beats only for you."

Mickey was silent, overwhelmed by Ian's little speech. Then he reached up and gently kissed his boyfriend, once, chastely. Then he simply said, "I love you, too."

And that was that.


End file.
